


Xenoflora

by Irrealia



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, F/M, Het, Masturbation, Sex Pollen, So Much Awkwardness, Vibrators, literal sex pollen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex pollen. Literally.</p><p>Rethinking an old trope + consent issues, and hoping to be thoughtful, smutty, and comic all at once.<br/><span class="small">Probably not going to succeed, but I can try.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Great Museum Tour of 2010

**Author's Note:**

> Set in S5 between “Cold Blood” and “Vincent and the Doctor”. Originally inspired by the seasonal blooming of trees in the city where I lived when I first wrote this, trees with a very distinctive smell. The tree in this story is based off Ailanthus altissima, a real tree, invasive outside its native Asia, that is rather hilariously also known as the Tree of Heaven. 

The Great Museum Tour of 2010 dragged on. Amy Pond dragged her feet. 

“Stop sulking Pond.” The Doctor crossed his arms over his chest and appraised her. Hair half in her face, slouched posture, eyes trained on her feet. Bit more than a sulk, most likely; in the absence of Rory, Amy was sadder than she could ever remember, and yet couldn't even properly remember that she was sad. What did humans want when sad? He wasn’t good with sad.

“There's a garden section of the museum, for botanists,” he offered. Amy did not look enthused, so he elaborated. “Flowers. Extinct species, recreated from the DNA up. Preserved only here.” He leaned in to her, gently brushed her hair off her face. “Come along, Pond. Let's get out of the dust.”

**

It was a warm clear night, with plenty of moonlight from the three moons dancing through the sky. The gardens were immaculately tended, and most of the flowers were beautiful—or at least, beautiful in their strangeness. Colours Amy had seen only in dreams; hideous creations that looked hallucinatory. Velvety textures, protective spiky bits, every imaginable enticement to touch and enjoy, but not harm. Amazing perfumes and hideous stinks—though that assessment doubtless depended on who was smelling.

They stopped for a moment in front of a young little tree with fern-like branches and little green flowers that almost blended in to the leaves, remarkable primarily for how plain it was in comparison to the rest of the museum’s specimens. “ _Ailanthus extraterrestrialis_ ,” said the Doctor. “Named by botanists from Earth who noticed its resemblance to more familiar flora. Wonder what it’s doing here?”

“Doctor, that can't be right.” Amy’s face was all scrunched up when he turned to look at her. “It smells like...”

“Like what, Pond?”

“Like, you know what like!” She smacked him on the arm, cheeks growing flushed.

“Like the semen of a number of similar although unrelated intelligent bipedal species across the Via Galactica, says right here on the helpful little sign by the tree. Which is also how I knew what it was.” He continued reading: “‘Unlike many extinct species, _A. extraterrestrialis_ was intentionally eradicated due to the profound sexual arousal and attendant health and safety difficulties that pollen exposure provoked in these species. We have recreated this specimen for research into the cause and prevention of this phenomenon. We encourage visitors who find themselves adversely affected by contact with _A. extraterrestrialis_ to contact museum staff as soon as possible.’ Well, good thing Time Lords don’t seem to be affected, since I can’t smell a thing. How are you doing, Pond? Keen to help the nice exobotanists? It's for science!”

“I'll show you science,” slurred Amy, falling onto him with a limp haplessness that was probably intended to be a seductive pounce.

There was a helpful button labelled “Call museum staff” below the placard describing the noxious little tree, and an intercom. He pressed the button. The intercom bleated out a sad little message. “Thank you for contacting the exobotany department in regards to _Ailanthus extraterrestrialis_ exposure. Unfortunately, as the museum is closed for the Feast of Revolutionary Virtues, we are not able to offer our assistance at this time. We encourage you to seek professional medical assistance as soon as possible.” 

This was very, very not good.

**

Getting Amy back to the TARDIS was more than a challenge. She could walk, with help, but her limbs were slack and heavy, her face flushed, her eyes glazed over. Her whole body was hot, burning, and he was keenly aware of it, because she was pressed against him as fully as she could be while still being able to move her feet. She was babbling. “Want you,” she said. It was something of a theme.“Want you. Bed now. I kissed you. Remember? I kissed you. Let's do that again. More kissing. More everything. Want you. Want you so much. Ever since I was little. Ever since you came back. Want you. Need you. Doctor. Please. Kiss me? Please...” And she was pressing kisses onto his shoulder, half-grinding against him even as he kept her on her feet and moving forward.  

He eased them both through the doors and into the control room, planted Amy gently but firmly onto the jump seat, and buckled the seatbelt. He hoped that would keep her steady for long enough for him to formulate some kind of response. He started scanning the TARDIS files for information about _Ailanthus extraterrestrialis_. The existence of a tree that could make humans aroused and intoxicated was improbable but not, on the whole, impossible. Flowers were sexual organs; pollen was sex.

The TARDIS biological and medical databases didn't have much in the way of information beyond what he’d learned at the museum and what he could just as easily have observed by looking at Amy. Not that he was looking at Amy, because judging from the noises she was making, she was probably doing some things he wasn’t prepared to face just yet. Messy things. Human things.

He used to be so much more human.

The most notable feature of exposure to _A. extraterrestrialis_ pollen was acute and uncontrollable sexual arousal. Left untreated, it could cause extreme physical discomfort due to either the very high levels of bloodflow to the genitals, or damage to them caused by... overexercise.

Well then.

Other symptoms varied depending on species. Amy's other symptoms—fever and alcohol-like intoxication—were fairly typical for human exposure. No cure for the effects had been found, with the exception of an antidote to the pollen known to work on a human-like race from somewhere in the galactic centre. In general, treatment protocols focused on alleviating symptoms like swelling, fever, and nausea, while waiting for the arousal to subside. Pollen-affected individuals generally exhibited symptoms for approximately 24 hours. Uncomfortable, but by no means life-threatening.

Well then. He could do that, surely. Take care of an overexcited Amelia Pond for 24 hours—well, 23 hours now—without doing anything either of them would regret in the morning. Couldn't he?

With his courage renewed by steadying facts, he finally turned to Amy. She didn't look nearly as indecent or dishevelled as he expected based on the constant stream of soft moans coming from her. She was stroking her breasts through the soft jersey of her jumper with one hand, and fondling her thighs with the other, trying and failing to get her right hand under her short skirt. 

She perked up when she noticed that he’d turned around, and looked up at him with bright, mad eyes. “Doctor, do you think you could undo the seatbelt for me? S’getting in the way.”

He took her hands instead.

“Amelia. Amelia, please listen to me. You're sick right now, very sick. I know you don't feel sick, but you’re not quite yourself, so you have to trust me. Remember how I asked you to trust me for 20 minutes?”

Amy nodded, looking rather serious.

“Trust me for a day, Amelia Pond. Just one day, until you're better.”

She nodded again. Then she slid her hands up his arms, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him towards her with surprising strength, straight into a kiss. His arms landed on the back of the jump seat, and one knee wedged between her legs. He kissed back for a minute, reflexively. Her lips were soft, her tongue slipped into his mouth. Her breasts pressed up against him, and the space between her legs burned hotter than the rest of her. She ground against him purposefully, jolting him out of the realm of pleasant sensations, and he pulled back from her sharply.  

She made a somewhat frightening whine at the loss of contact, and then started babbling again. “Doctor. Doctor! Why do they call you that? Doctor. Make me better Doctor.”  

“I will, Amy.” He stroked a hand softly down her cheek, and she leaned into the contact, desperate for anything. “I promise you.”

“Want you. Doctor. Kiss it better? Want you.”

“Oh Amelia. Kisses possess neither anti-inflammatory nor anti-pyretic properties. I'm afraid it'll have to be garden-variety aspirin for you. Up we go.” He unfastened the seatbelt, and helped Amy to stand again, leaning heavily against him. “Off to the infirmary.”


	2. Stellar Cartography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I always meant for this to have at least a second chapter, but I lost the first one I wrote a million years ago, and I only just now figured out how the second second chapter should go. 
> 
> So here is Chapter 2: In which the Doctor tries to find a loophole so no one has to do anything that will make them feel too awkward in the morning.

The Doctor didn’t need to spend much time examining Amy before he realised how difficult it would be for him to touch her without setting her off in a way that she would regret. Fortunately, the TARDIS sickbay had some fancy contact-free diagnostic scanning equipment, which confirmed approximately what he had already deduced about his companion’s condition: blood pooling in inflamed genitals, elevated temperature, and a correspondingly addled head. 

He slumped against a counter, watching Amy sleep on a cot in the infirmary. He hadn’t even been sure that she’d be able to sleep in her present state, but some (all right, perhaps a lot of) lorazepam had both dulled the edge of her urgent need for touch and comfort, and also made her much more amenable to the idea of a nap. A bit of acetylsalicylic acid had taken the edge off the fever and inflammation. It would have to do for now. He had read aloud to her from a very dry book on stellar cartography whilst waiting for the drugs to kick in, for Amy to drowsily curl up, for her eyes to flutter closed. Keeping his eyes on the book meant not having to look at her, but reading to her seemed to satisfy some of her desire for his attention. Once he was certain she was quite asleep, he’d drawn a large, heavy blanket over her, and quietly tiptoed out of the infirmary. Just 21 hours to go now, said his infallible inner time senses, and he guessed that he’d bought himself at least a few hours of sleep for Amy, and reprieve for himself. He could rest. Or, he could think of some way to make her feel better faster. 

**

He’d meant to wander back to his own room, but his feet somehow carried him to Amy’s instead. Tentatively, he cracked the door open and poked his head inside, almost as if he was expecting her to come at him with a cricket bat again. Shrugging off his irrational hesitance, he stepped into the room more fully. It was a bedroom, full of bedroom things. Clothes scattered here and there, tights and skirts and jumpers and jackets. Knick-knacks that Amy must have picked up on their less life-threatening adventures, cluttering the shelves. A few things of Rory’s, piled in a corner as if Amy didn’t quite understand who they had belonged to, or what they might be doing in her room. Some kind of rudimentary battery-operated medical device on the nightstand, which was an odd shade of pink. Was Amy sick? If so, he really should ask her about it as soon as she was awake, because of course it might complicate the  _ A. extraterrestrialis _ exposure. He aimed the sonic at it, and did a quick little scan. 

It started vibrating cheerily. 

Oh. 

OH.

Perhaps there was a non-invasive solution after all? 

**

After thoroughly disinfecting Amy’s… device, the Doctor tucked it in the inner pocket of his blazer and wandered back to the infirmary, picking up the stellar cartography text for his own sake and idly perusing it until her eyes drifted open. From her dilated pupils, he could tell she was still intoxicated, and the medical equipment, with the press of a few buttons, confirmed that her temperature was still elevated. 17 hours left. Well, no time like the present to put his discovery to use. With a little moue of distaste, he produced Amy’s device from his pocket, and put it in her hand. Her eyes widened a bit at the sight, even if they couldn’t quite focus, and she grinned lasciviously at him. “You’ve been in my  _ bedroom _ , Doctor,” she chided him, attempting a sexy wink and failing somewhat spectacularly. “Whatever could you have been doing there without  _ me? _ ” With this, she tried to roll over on one side to reach towards the Doctor, but ended up nearly rolling herself off the cot instead. The Doctor rushed in to steady her.

“Looking for something that might help you, Amy,” he answered. “And aren’t you a clever girl, you already came, well. Ahem. Prepared.” His voice softened a bit, and his hands lingered on her a little too long, shifting her back into a more stable position on the cot. She arched up into his touch as he tried to settle her, and he jumped back from her as quickly as possible, forcibly reminded, by her reaction, that touching her was really not what he ought to be doing. He pressed the pink device firmly into her right hand, and then stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So why don’t you do whatever it is you’re supposed to do with that, and we’ll see if that doesn’t improve things.” He moved the chair he had been sitting in to a far corner of the room and sat down, holding his book rather awkwardly in front of his face. “I can stay here to make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” he offered. And then, immediately realising that was probably a very bad idea,  he bolted up from the chair. “Although I’m sure you’d really be better off alone, wouldn’t you, free to think all your thoughts about human things that humans think about when they…..” He coughed. “When they think.”

He had just turned towards the door when Amy caught him by the wrist, in a rare show of coordination and strength. “Stay,” she commanded, and in spite of—or perhaps because of—the sick fire in her eyes, she was as commanding as she ever had been, and he was as helpless in the face of her whims as he usually was. He—this him, anyway—had always been Amy’s, after all, and maybe always would be. He had imprinted on her as surely as a duckling on the first thing it sees after hatching, and whether she was seven or twenty-seven, or however old she was now come to think of it, he couldn’t help wanting to make her happy. 

He stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now there's going to have to be a Chapter 3....


	3. Memories of Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onanism saves the day?

He stayed. First he quietly handed her a cup of water and some more antipyretics, and then he plonked himself firmly in his chair, giving Amy as much privacy as he could by burying his nose in the book. It wasn’t a particularly scintillating rundown of the science of stellar cartography, but the content wasn’t really the point, he acknowledged a little ruefully. He heard a buzzing noise as Amy activated her device. Despite her general lack of coordination and fully clothed state, he quickly deduced that she must have managed to apply it to herself more or less correctly, because shortly after the buzzing began, she started to moan softly and steadily. Rustling noises accompanied her vocalisations, texturing them with a fabricky rhythm.

He peeked over the edge of the book, and promptly wished he hadn’t, so he stared determinedly at the text instead, without really seeing it. He was profoundly uncomfortable. He was not in the habit of thinking with any particular depth about his _feelings_ , but his discomfort in the present situation  could not be ignored for much longer.

He wasn’t human. Some of his past selves had enjoyed _dancing_ with the more fleshly aspects of his existence—the last one in particular—and those were nice memories. But they were just that: _memories_ . And even though his current self wasn’t very old, and he didn’t know this new himself particularly well just yet, it seemed so far that his initial reaction to any kind of sexual overture was to panic and flail—or worse, freeze. That was what he had done the first time that Amy had kissed him, and he’d responded to River much the same way. The urge to panic and flee the situation was still strong, and he really might have done, if he could put it down to something other than a dear friend’s sickness. The trouble was that now, he was also _reacting_ . Reacting at _the worst possible time_ , when the woman who was provoking said reaction was both weighed down with a grief she couldn’t articulate, _and_ temporarily impaired. Intoxicated. Aroused against her will. And to top it all off, he couldn’t sort out if the blasted _reaction_ was down to the _A. terrestrialis_ pollen having some kind of delayed effect on him, or something else that he didn’t want to examine very closely.

So he decided not to. Instead, he put his heavy book firmly down on his lap, as if the sheer weight of it would somehow dam the steady flow of blood into his erectile tissues.

It didn’t.

Putting the book down also exposed Amy quite fully to his reluctant view. Her skirt was rucked up and she was applying the happily buzzing device to the nerve centres between her legs. Her tights were still on, but they were twisted, as if she’d tried and failed to get them off, and then just decided she didn’t care. They were thin enough to not dampen the vibration too much, so he supposed that was probably just practical of her. She’d tugged her jumper halfway up her torso, and while her breasts weren’t exposed, the delicate knitted fabric didn’t do much to hide the way her hands moved, working at her nipples in rhythm with the thrusting of her hips against the vibrating pink silicone.

He picked the book back up with speed he had not previously known he could possess. His cock sprung back up to attention as soon as the weight was gone, and it was, if anything, even harder than before.

He took a deep breath—time to avail himself of the same remedy he’d offered his patient, and put the book down on top of a counter. He stood, then, carefully adjusting his jacket. Given how Amy had clung to him earlier, the last thing he wanted was for her to notice his state, to think him willing.

He was affected. _She_ was intoxicated. Neither was the same thing as willing.

“Amy?” he called softly, from where he was standing behind her cot.

“Mmmm yesssssssssssss Doctor,” she purred. Or slurred. Her speech was hopelessly mangled by her rising excitement, and the sound of his name sent a wave of _something uncomfortable_ through his core.

He continued anyway.

“Amy, I think you’ll probably be alright if I leave you alone for a little bit.” Without giving her time to voice her opinion, he continued on. “I’m going to be just down the hall so if you need me I’m sure you can just shout and I’ll hear it, and anyway if you really need me you’ve got your mobile in your pocket so you can ring me, so just… ring me if you start feeling worse. But that shouldn’t be a problem, you just had a few tablets a bit ago, and I’ll be back when it’s time for your next dose.” He raced through the words, twirled only a little manically through the door, and then, when he was on the other side of it, slumped against the wall with a sigh.

He could still hear her through the door, moaning. His exit had barely made a dent.

(Well, she might have called out the word “Doctor,” but he really doubted it was a plea for medical attention.)

**

Two doors to the left of the infirmary he found a familiar door; the TARDIS was kind enough to have relocated his room. He stepped in and shucked his jacket off almost immediately, tossing it onto the rumpled bed. It was a spare thing, his bedroom, little used and little elaborated. He didn’t keep much in it other than a bed for his occasional ventures in sleeping, and some particularly valuable/horrifying/miraculous items that he didn’t dare leave anywhere else.

He’d probably spent more time in Rose’s room than his own, come to think of it.

But he had come here with a purpose. His body was reacting to Amy’s distress, and the thing to do was clearly to tend to the needs of his body. Once he got that out of the way, he’d be able to go back to tending to Amy as a friend, as a _doctor_ , without any complications or distractions that would interfere with his duty of care towards her.

(And of course, while he was sorting himself out, hopefully she was doing the same thing and would be feeling much better in a few hours when he stopped in to give her the next dose of medicine. 16 hours left now; a mere 12 or 13 by the time he needed to look in on her again.)

So. He would see to his body.

It still felt newish; he’d not been running around with Amy for that long, after all. Some months, perhaps? And as this self was less inclined to carnal pursuits, well, he hadn’t really taken too much time to explore. He ruffled a hand through his hair—still absurd, that. Lighter now, but still not ginger. Touching it felt nicer than he remembered, though, and he ran his hands through his hair over and over again, thoroughly mussing it. He unclipped his braces, and then started undoing his shirt. He was a bit more solid now, but still slender. Light tufts of hair on his chest, pale nipples—sensitive nipples, he amended, as his long, nimble fingers trailed over them. That might warrant more attention.

Then he moved on, steadily, to the fastening of his trousers, doing away with them and sliding them down together with his pants. He looked down, critically, closing one eye and squinting with the other. Big, he supposed. Not bad, as cocks went, though if his memory could be trusted, he’d had nicer in the past. It rested heavily between his legs, not fully erect now, but firm, and throbbing nicely when he took himself in hand.

(Apparently, he liked to masturbate with his left hand now. Interesting.)

He gave himself a few experimental tugs, sliding the foreskin up and down the shaft, and bit back a moan as he found the right speed and pressure. His cock, too, was sensitive, and a light grip was apparently just the thing. (Maybe that was why he’d opted for the left hand?) He eased into a rhythm, his right hand drifting up his flat stomach and back to the sensitive nipples, teasing them into aching little peaks as the hand on his cock gradually sped up.

He tried not to think of Amy, but he did anyway. He’d only caught glimpses of her, but they were seared into his damnably fine memory. Her bright hair, tangled from the way she’d been grinding against the bed, had been splayed out in fuzzy waves on the pillow of the cot. Her head had been turned to the side, exposing a curve of white neck. He could bury his face in that curve, lick, taste, nuzzle, maybe nip. His teeth clacked together as he pondered it, the urge to bite in pleasure apparently strong. Her jumper had been just shy of exposing her breasts, and it would be the work of a moment to tug it up, to pinch at her nipples the way he was lightly pinching his own right now. Her skirt, too, had been halfway up, and her tights tugged down. It would be the easiest thing to help her out of them, to slide his hands down the length of her legs as he eased the stretchy nylon off her body, releasing her scent into the room.

He’d been able to smell her, even clothed, the salt and sour scent of human female arousal everywhere around him. Even now, he thought he could smell it. It would overpower him, if he took her tights off. It stood to reason that she must be slick with arousal now, after the pollen, after her self-stimulation. With her snatch bared, he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist running his fingers through her wetness, and licking the taste of her off them. And then probably going back for more, plunging his fingers inside. But knowing Amy, knowing what she was going through with the pollen, she’d need more than just his fingers.

The strokes of his left hand were almost frantic, now.

She would want more. She would want his cock. And what sort of doctor would he be if he denied her the one thing that would make her feel better? It would be awkward with two on the cot, but that wouldn’t stop him from draping his gangly frame across her, grinding his pelvis up against hers, and slipping a hand in between their bodies to aim his cock homeward. And then nothing would stop him from the one great thrust required to slam it in, to give her what she needed, to give them _both_ what they needed.

When he came, it was with a strangled shout, teeth digging into the inside of his cheek. He was only two doors down, and the last thing he needed was for Amy to _hear_ him doing this.

He looked around, and finding nothing, settled for sitting down on his narrow bed and wiping his hand off on the duvet. And then, with his trousers and pants still tangled around his ankles, he flopped sideways onto the pillow, tugging the soiled blanket awkwardly half over himself with a sticky hand.

The Doctor slept.


End file.
